The girl walked past me in silence, never noticing I was there. Lost in her own disaster. It didn't even cross my mind to ask if she wanted my help, as if the fact that she was ignoring my presence absolved me from having to provide any assistance.
I didn't move, but watched her all the way down the road, until she had disappeared out of sight behind the trees. The last sight I had was of the baby, its head bouncing out of a pothole.
I stared into the trees across the road. There was silence. No birds. The birds had got the fuck out of Dodge as soon as the war had started. They had more sense than the rest of us. Even the insects appeared to have given this place a rest.
The kid might have gone, but the baby's face was emblazoned in the back of my eyes. At some stage I realised that my face was wet with tears.
Some time later I heard the low rumble of a truck, coming from the same direction as the kid. The day was so quiet that I could hear the truck for some time before it appeared, slowly negotiating its way around the holes in the road. It was an open-topped green 4 tonne military vehicle with no plates. There were two guys in the cab at the front, seven or eight slouched unhappily in the back. Hot, dirty, miserable. Croatians, leaning on guns, or slumped over, their elbows resting on their knees. Most of them looked at me as they drove past. They didn't stop.
I wondered for a while what they did when they came across the kid in the road. The kid with the baby. Maybe they slowed down.
*
Walk back into the office just after lunch, having helped myself to a Little Chef all day breakfast on my way home. Herrod called five times while I was out, but I let the phone ring out each time. Not in the mood.
Can tell something's happened. Herrod's there, talking agitatedly to someone on the phone. There are a few more constables about the station than should be on Boxing Day, and they all look as if they've got something to do. One of them calls over that Taylor wants to see me, then scurries off. The door to Miller's office is open and I can hear her speaking to what is obviously an inferior. Recognise the tone. All connects with the press hanging around outside the front door. The place is in a state of controlled excitement. Wonder if we've got our man, and where General Bloonsbury is amidst the turmoil.
Herrod slams down the phone as I walk past.
'Where the fuck have you been?' he growls at me, and I've a good mind to tell him what I was doing, and that if he ever talks to me like that again I'll get him thrown in jail. Ignore him. He gets up, and walks quickly out the office.
'I'm getting your mobile surgically attached to your arse,' he grumbles as he goes.
Stupid bastard.
Another constable buzzes past. Catch the faint trace of alcohol in the air. Called in unexpectedly over Christmas — what do you expect? Walk into Taylor's office, expecting to find him feverishly arresting criminals. He's leaning back in his chair, feet up on his desk, a cup of tea in his hand. Looks as if he's just enjoyed a nice bit of lunch. An oasis of calm. Pull up the seat across the desk but don't go so far as to put my feet up.
'Can I take it I missed something?'
He takes a drink from his tea, places the cup back on the desk, puts his hands behind his head.
'Where've you been, Sergeant?'
'Pursuing an independent line of inquiry,' I say.
He nods. Trusts me enough to know he'll find out about it when I'm ready to tell him. Although, in this case, who knows when that's going to be.
'We think our man had another go last night. Followed a woman back to her flat in Rutherglen, she asked him in…' raises his eyebrows as he says it, and he's right. Don't these people read the papers? 'She starts thinking there's something a bit weird about him. He goes to the toilet, she looks in his jacket, discovers a knife. Usual thick bitch with her head in the sand, doesn't know anything about the murder on Monday night. But she does know she's got some heid-the-ba' in her bathroom, so she gets out. Goes to a friend's house. The friend is a bit more switched on, shows her our first photofit in the paper, and she thinks it's him. Waits until this morning…'
'What?'
He shrugs. 'That's the helpful public for you. Anyway, she gets one of us to go back to her flat with her, just in case he's lying in wait. Long gone of course, but not before he's ripped the shit out the joint. Stupid bitch is still downstairs peeing her pants.'
'Fuck…'
'Anyway, we've got a bit of a better description out of it, but who knows? It's a distinct third photo we've got now, anyway, rather than an evolution of the first or second. These people are just fucking useless. The lot of them.'
Takes his feet down, drums his fingers on the desk. 'Useless,' he repeats. 'Still, he blew it, and we should be a step closer.'
'So, how come you're sitting here with your feet up while everyone else is in ferment?'
'Thinking. Got to think in this job, Hutton, I've told you before. That's why you're still a sergeant.'
One of the many reasons.
'Where's Bloonsbury?'
'Still down there. Got the crew going house to house and the SOCOs going over the flat. Jonah's in charge, and bloody miserable that the guy got away. Has this theory that now he's blown one, the guy'll back off and disappear and we'll never get him.'
'What do you think?'
'I think he'll show his hand. These headcases can't keep their knives to themselves. Bloonsbury's too busy wallowing in J amp;B to be positive about anything. Had a pickled napper for the last ten years. Still don't know how the fuck he solved that murder case last year.'
Used to wonder about that myself. Now might just be time to tell Taylor, but I hold back. I have to know more and I haven't the faintest idea how I'm going to find it. CID just doesn't train you well enough in investigation.
Change the subject.
'How'd you get on last night?' I ask.
He snorts, shakes his head.
'Awful. Just awful. Those arseholes were as bad as usual, then Debbie gets a call about half nine and was on the phone for God knows how long.'
'King Dong?'
That one hurt, hold my hand up in apology.
'Aye,' he says eventually. 'Bastard. I ended up coming in here, didn't go home until about three.'
'Get anything done?'
'Worked like a dog. Took my mind off it.' Indicates the desk, and there's a lot less shite lying on it than usual. 'You should try it some time.'
Ignore that remark. 'What are you going to do?'
'About Debbie?' he says, shrugging. 'No idea. Don't know why she doesn't just leave.'
'Maybe he doesn't want to take her in.'
'Aye, maybe.' Nods, purses his lips. Looks resigned and miserable. 'Suppose that's what she's doing. Trying to get me to leave, so she can have the place to herself.'
'Why don't you talk to her about it?'
Shakes his head and I realise I'm out of my depth with this. I'm no counsellor. I've always just accepted my marriage break-ups with a Calvinistic resignation. It's not like I haven't realised why they were happening.
'We haven't talked in years, Thomas,' he says.
He looks terrible and I wish I hadn't reminded him of it. We'd been doing fine, and the juxtaposition of that with my own Christmas Day — my marriage going in the opposite direction, if I want it to — makes me feel guilty.
Change the subject again.
'So what have you been thinking?'
He sits back, toys with his tea. Think I've got his mind on to it just in time.
'Just wondering if it's worthwhile trying to flush him out, albeit that stuff's mostly a load of shite.'